At the last second, she scurried for the nearest chair and picked up a glossy from the side table. When Sonya said, “Kim, Ric’s here,” she managed to lower the magazine with surprisingly steady hands. Her smile was cordial, calm, controlled. Then she looked up into the deep sapphire of his eyes and her heart lurched like a poleaxed drunk.
“You’re here,” she said nonsensically.
Not the opening line she’d rehearsed—that was supposed to be a cool you’re late, as she swept past him and strode out to the car—but better than thanking him for being here and bringing laughter into the emptiness.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
She put down the magazine. “For the past twenty minutes.”
One of his brows rose marginally. “Nice to know you’ve acquired punctuality.”
The subtle jibe at the past, referencing one of the flaws she’d fixed in the new grown-up version of Kimberley Blackstone, cooled the remaining impact of his arrival from her blood. Ignoring his proffered hand she rose to her feet and, after kissing Sonya on the cheek, swept past Perrini and out to his car. Marcie, the housekeeper, opened the front door and allowed her to proceed unimpeded. If only they had valet parking she could have swept all the way to his car and into the passenger seat.
Instead she was left beside the locked Maserati cooling her three-inch heels. She’d chosen them to help level out the height difference and therefore the power dynamic, although she still needed an extra couple of inches to bring her eye-to-eye with Perrini’s six-one.
Why in heaven’s name had he felt the need to lock his precious car?
Arms folded, she tapped her toe and frowned back toward the still-open front door. Several minutes later he appeared, and paused to speak to Marcie. Okay, she was honest enough to admit that he looked bloody good. Even though he’d likely come straight from the office after a twelve-hour day, his charcoal suit was immaculate, his white shirt crisp, his sapphire tie perfectly knotted.
But it wasn’t only the expensive hand-tailoring, it was the way he wore the clothes. Whether he was striding into a meeting wearing one of his suits or sauntering by the pool in nothing but a brief pair of swimmers, he had a unique combination of cool authority and kick-ass confidence that drew attention to the man rather than the external trappings.
The effects of that long, open inspection were still rippling through Kimberley’s body when he bent and kissed a blushing Marcie on the cheek, and peeled away to jog down the steps. The remnants of a smile softened his mouth and she had to work hard to maintain her irritation.
“Don’t you trust our staff?” she asked, inclining her head toward the locked car.
“Force of habit.” The doors popped with a scarcely audible snick. He opened her door, then waited until she’d slid inside before he leaned down to meet her eyes. His were no longer smiling. “For what it’s worth, I wasn’t expecting to see any staff.”
Kimberley recognised the pointed dig. “I couldn’t see the sense in keeping loyal, long-serving staff laid off for fear they may leak private information, when it is obvious the press is getting whatever details they want from their own sources.”
“Are you referring to Marise’s supposedly private funeral?”
“That’s one instance.” It had been mentioned in more than one of today’s newspapers, which made her mad enough to spit. “They seem remarkably well-informed about everything.”
“It’s their job to be.” Perrini’s expression tightened with his own irritation. “Seat belt.”
“I’m not a child. I know—”
She sucked in a breath as he short-circuited her indignant protest by leaning across to retrieve the belt. In the process his arm brushed the side of her breast and she felt the fleeting contact reverberate low in her belly and pull tight in her nipples.
Damn.
He stilled a moment—or perhaps that was just her, her heart, her senses—before clicking the belt into place. Then the dark heat of his eyes locked on hers and he spoke in a low and rough-edged voice. “I know you’re not a child, Kim, despite indications to the contrary.”
Indications to the contrary? What the hell did he mean by that?
The door thudded shut, leaving her quivering with suppressed wrath for the six seconds he took to round the car and slip into the driver’s seat. Kimberley counted to six again, while he started the engine and she controlled her urge to shriek those questions.
“Indications to the contrary?” She managed to sound cool and composed. And adult.
“This decision to reappoint the household staff without consulting me—did you have a reason other than to thumb your nose at me?”
“Without consulting you? I’m sorry, but I didn’t realise you were now the head of my household.”
As he powered through the security gates and into the street, he cut her a narrow look. “I didn’t realise you considered yourself a part of this household.”
Touché.
Kimberley inhaled long and deep. Provoked by his remark about her childishness, that head-of-my-household comment had just slipped out. “You’re right,” she admitted in a more reasonable tone. “I’m only a visitor, but I did consult with Sonya before calling any staff back on duty. I didn’t think she needed the extra work.”
“Perhaps she does.”
That perceptive comment deflated the last of Kimberley’s resentment. How could she remain piqued when they were on the same wavelength regarding Sonya? “Yes, she does…to an extent, which is why I asked the cook to take an extra week of holiday leave. Sonya enjoys the kitchen and that’s enough for the moment. Plus with Marcie in the house she has both help and company.”
Another sidelong glance. “You aren’t enough help?”
“In the kitchen?” Kimberley laughed dryly and shook her head. “You know what happens when I’m allowed access to a cooktop!”
For a heartbeat their gazes caught and a decade-old memory arced between them. Burning bacon, a shrieking smoke alarm and Kimberley hopping from one foot to the other, yelling for help.
Her husband of six days had picked her up fireman style and bundled her back to the bedroom. In here, he’d said, you can burn and scream all you want.
“Things change in ten years,” he said now.
“Some things. Others stay the same.”
Stationary at a traffic light, Ric leaned his forearm on the wheel and turned to study her profile more closely. She’d tied her hair back, worn minimal makeup and jewellery and one of those blend-into-the-background dresses whose only plus was the fact it ended short of her knees. Rather than diminishing her beauty, the austere look drew all attention to her face. With that amazing, contrary combination of fire and ice, of strength and vulnerability, of have-me mouth and hands-off eyes, Kim Blackstone would never blend into any background.
“What hasn’t changed?” he asked softly.
For a moment he thought she would ignore his question, but then she rolled her head against the seat and the answer was there in her eyes, in that moment, in the crackle of sexual awareness.
This hasn’t changed.
From the moment she’d strutted into his life, fresh from a two-year apprenticeship with a diamond master in Antwerp and bursting with a passionate impatience to overhaul the marketing of Janderra’s rare coloured diamonds, she’d lit his senses with white-hot desire. For seven and a half weeks she’d kept him at bay with her sharp tongue and cutting lines. That hadn’t changed, either. The same distrust, the same defence mechanisms, the same defiance that put her in the beige background dress instead of the stunner Sonya had described her buying today.
The light changed to green and Ric urged the Maserati forward. The engine’s smooth growl reverberated low in his belly. If Kim didn’t feel threatened by this undiminished sexual spark between them, then she wouldn’t feel a need to employ those obvious defences. She was working to keep him at arm’s length, he realised with a delayed jolt of perception. She tried to keep her own desires in check.
First time around he’d allowed her time and space while he enjoyed the challenge, the pursuit, the anticipation. This time the stakes were higher. He wasn’t playing games; he was playing for keeps.
From the corner of his eye he caught the almost imperceptible lift of her chin. Defence mechanism number one. A precursor to speech, used when preparing for verbal battle.
Deep inside Ric smiled in anticipation. Bring it on, babe. I’m ready.
“I may not have learned how to cook,” she said, circling back to her earlier comment about kitchen helpfulness. “But I have changed in other ways.”
“How?”
“I’m more cautious now. I don’t make snap decisions. I weigh my options so I can make an informed choice.”
With the position on the Blackstone’s board, for example. That’s where she wanted to lead the conversation; that’s why she’d taken her time in choosing her words so cleverly. A pity and a waste, since he wasn’t ready to go there. They were within five minutes of their destination and an inevitable disruption.
Their long, involved and probably heated discussion was for later, without interruption, so he let her leading comment take this conversation in another direction. “Such as deciding to wear that dress—” his gaze swept over her before returning to the road “—instead of the new one?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The new dress you picked out in Double Bay this afternoon.”
“Sonya,” she said on an accusatory note. “I can’t believe she told you about that!”
“Not nearly enough, as it happens. Why don’t you fill in the gaps.”
“You want to hear about our shopping expedition?”
The incredulous look on her face was priceless. Ric stifled a grin. “I want to hear about the dress and why you decided not to wear it.” He let his eyes drift over her in lazy speculation. “Was it too short? Too low-cut? Too revealing?”
“All of those things,” she replied without missing a beat.
“Then I can’t wait to see you in it,” he murmured.
“I doubt that will happen.”
“Spoilsport.”
The start of a smile lurked around the corners of her mouth but she looked away quickly, peering out the side window in sudden rapt interest. He noticed the exact second her pseudo-interest turned real. Her shoulders stiffened, her head snapped around. “Where are you taking me?”
“My place. Is that a problem?”
“You said dinner. I assumed you meant at a restaurant.”
“I could get a table at Icebergs if you’d prefer,” he said mildly. “Although I can’t promise we’ll have privacy to talk or that our tête-à-tête won’t appear in a society column tomorrow.”
Indecision ghosted across her expression.
“Which wouldn’t be all bad,” he mused. “It’d give them something to talk about other than Howard and Marise.” Flicking on an indicator, he pulled over to the side of the road and reached for his mobile phone. “I can call ahead and secure a table if you don’t mind being noticed dining with me. Or we can eat at my place, as planned, with the privacy to talk business and no risk of interruption.
“Your decision, Kim. What’s it to be?”
Six
P errini was too damn clever by half! Kimberley quietly simmered while she chose privacy, just as he’d set her up to do. They had business to discuss and if he tried baiting her again as he’d done over the dress and just now over the restaurant, then she might feel inclined to throw something at him. She would prefer if that didn’t appear in any society columns, thank you very much.
Which didn’t mean she felt comfortable returning to the house where they’d spent so many nights and weekends of their affair, plus their short, drama-filled ten days of marriage. During the days they’d worked side by side with cool, professional restraint, and in the evenings they’d driven into this street, this driveway, this garage, and torn into each other with a fevered passion that could not wait a second longer.
“You’re not nervous about coming here?”
Kimberley blinked herself out of the minefield of memories. Carefully she relaxed her fisted fingers and moistened her lips. “Should I be?”
“I don’t see why.”
But there was a dangerous glint of heat in his eyes as they rested briefly on her mouth, and she wondered if he, too, was recalling the times they hadn’t made it upstairs with all their clothes on. When they’d slaked their hunger for each other here in his car, or in the foyer leading off the garage, or in the slick elevator that glided between the three floors of this uniquely designed contemporary town house.
“Do you live here alone?” she asked.
The question had been brewing, unacknowledged and unspoken, ever since the day by the pool when he’d told her he still lived here. Now seemed the time to ask. Before he took her inside.
“At the moment,” he said after a beat of pause, “yes.”
Now, what was that supposed to mean? Had there been a live-in lover, one who’d recently packed her bags and departed? Or did he have someone waiting in the wings, all primed and ready to park her stilettos under his bed?
The thought crept up like a thief and ambushed her with unbidden images. Perrini with a faceless, nameless woman. Her hands sliding inside his shirt. Her mouth opening to his kiss. Her arms pulling him down to the bed.
No. Kimberley shut down the visuals with a vicious shake of her head. And while he opened the passenger door and ushered her from the car to the foyer and into the elevator, she struggled to tamp down the impact of her irrational possessiveness. She had no right to it. She had no claim on him.
Business, she reminded herself. It’s not about us.
But in the confines of the closet-size lift, she became hyper-aware of the whipcord tension in his body and the heat emanating from his skin despite the layers of fine Italian tailoring separating their shoulders, their arms, their hips. Those ten-year-old memories of greedy mouths and impatient hands and swiftly shed clothes worked back into her consciousness, blurring the imagery until the nameless woman’s face became hers.
Her hands, her mouth, her arms drawing him onto the bed and into her body.
“Hungry?”
The velvet murmur of his voice spent a moment meandering through her fantasy before Kimberley snapped her errant mind back into focus. “Yes, I am.” Cool. Somehow she managed to sound very cool. “What are we eating?”
“Seafood. For expedience I ordered ahead. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That would depend on what you ordered.”
“Blue swimmer crab. Roasted scallops. Ocean trout. Catch of the day with aioli and Murray River salt.”
Although her taste buds had started to shimmy in anticipation, Kimberley merely nodded. The real test was in the final course. “And for dessert?”
“Ah, so you still start your order from the bottom of the menu? That hasn’t changed?”
She tilted her head, enough that she could favour him with a silly-question look.
Amusement kicked up the corner of his mouth. “Zabaglione and Roberto’s signature gelato.”
“Which is?”
“Good. Very good.”
Her taste buds broke into a dance just as the elevator doors slid open at the top level. And she realised with a jolt of shock how little notice she’d taken of her surroundings downstairs. Here the changes hit her full in the face.
Ten years ago the house had been newly built and decorated in stark white to play up the clean lines and irregular angles. But with the open plan and abundant windows, light had bounced off every wall with blinding impact. Many times she’d teased him about the need to don sunglasses before entering his house.
Not anymore.
Evening sunlight still beamed through the glass doors that opened onto a large curved balcony, but the effect had been softened with earthy tones of cream and pale salmon and rich moss green. Kimberley paused in the centre of the living room to take in
all the changes. In the dining room one feature wall was painted with a mottled sponging of peachy cream. The artwork, the plants, the polished timber floors and terracotta sofas packed with plumped cushions, even the gilded shades on the unusual light fittings, all complemented the warm palette.
She finished her slow 360-degree inspection to find Perrini watching her from behind the kitchen bar. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat before him on the waist-high counter.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Did I get it right?”
There was something in his stillness, in the deliberate casualness of his question, that caused her heart to thump hard against her ribs.
He’d listened. The night she lay on one of the matched pair of snow-white couches with her head in his lap and described how she would decorate this area. He’d remembered.
She completed another turn as if she was still making up her mind, and then she lifted her arms and let them fall with the same fake casualness. “It works for me. Do you like it?”
“Overall, yes.” The hawklike intensity of his expression softened as he switched his attention to opening the wine. “I could have done without the peachy colours but Madeleine insisted.”
Kimberley’s heart stopped for a beat. Of course he hadn’t done it himself. How stupid to imagine him matching colours and cushions with her long-ago Sunday musings.
She wandered over to inspect a large abstract canvas, then on to the glass doors where she stared blindly out at the view. “Madeleine?” she asked.
“The decorator. She had her own interpretations on the brief I gave her.”
Not the live-in lover stewing in her imagination, but a professional. It was nothing personal, nothing to do with Kimberley at all, which was a very good thing. It was bad enough that she still felt an intense sexual pull every time he got too near, she didn’t need the emotional resonance of discovering he’d decorated to her specifications, to please her, to welcome her home. It was much better to acknowledge that he’d taken her overall idea and used it to inspire the overhaul. She couldn’t be disappointed. She would not allow herself that weakness.
Vows & a Vengeful Groom Page 7